


Handshake Tones

by Omorka



Category: Tron (1982)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new program's been taken off the grid; Tron feels him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handshake Tones

**Author's Note:**

> My first shot at this fandom. Originally for the prompt "a cell" at Story_Lottery on LJ.

"In here, program," the guard barked, and threw him into the holding cell. Ram heard the ultrasonic hiss of the force fields as they sealed him invisibly in, followed by the red program's heavy footsteps; his vision was still too blurred by the last jab of the spark-spears to see much.

Someone shifted on the other side of the force field. Ram turned in that direction. "Greetings?" he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt, as he pushed himself back to a sitting position.

"Not good ones," answered a calm, resigned voice. "Not in here."

Ram found a ledge to sit on and eased himself up off the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and blinked, hard. "They always this hospitable around here?"

"No." The answer was firm, immediate, but there was a trace of warmth in the voice. "On their bad days, they'll knock you all the way out before they toss you in."

"Might be better for my head that way." Ram looked up. The program on the other side of the field was a believer, still; his circuitry was the bright blue of someone who had been to an I/O tower within the past thousand cycles or so. Too many of the remaining User-loyalists sported the dull, faded azure of someone for whom communion with their User was a distant memory, or the thin green of someone who had never spoken to their maker.

"Nah, it's pretty unpleasant." The other program shifted so he was leaning against the field-generator frame. "The name's Tron."

Ram's eyes darted to his face. "Really? I've heard of you!" For the first time in cycles, he grinned. "Best player for the Users, they said. Unbeatable."

Tron shrugged. "Can't say that for sure. Haven't been beaten yet, though." He glanced through the transparent ceiling at the holding pit's arched girders far above them. "Seems like I'm the only one to survive more than a couple of games out of the last few batches." He paused uncomfortably, rolling his disc in his hands, before finally asking, "How'd they get you?"

"I'm from the insurance division. The MCP has controlled our contact with the rest of the grid for forever, but we were pretty well left alone inside - until now." Ram thought about the raid and flinched. "Sark's cruiser just - arrived at the main entrance, with no warning, and we were herded in like bits in an array. I tried to get past them," he added, touching the tender spot under his helmet, "and they nabbed me before I could hop a data-glider."

"Good thought, though," Tron said, nodding as if he remembered something from his own capture. "They control the game grid and the core memory, but they can't patrol the entire transport space. They don't have enough recognizer pilots. What's your name?"

"I'm Ram," he replied. The footsteps returned, echoing between the cells in the holding array. "So what happens next?"

"They give you an identity disc and send you into the game grid," Tron said, a hint of apology in his eyes. "Oh, and you have to listen to Sark's lecture. He'll try to convert you."

"Sounds fun," Ram winced as the guard marched onto the ceiling above them and tapped the button to open his cubicle. He edged out into the aisle, where a small mob of blue-clad programs was being herded by four more guards with spears ready. "See you later, Tron."

"I hope so," he muttered as the crowd was prodded away.

\---

Tron was not surprised by the sudden arrival of a nearly-unconscious program in the next cubicle, flung there by a pair of red grunts. He was slightly taken aback when he realized it was Ram again.

"So you made it," he said, trying not to sound too astonished.

"Barely," groaned Ram. He climbed onto the ledge and lay supine on it, his feet dangling off the edge. "They sent me to the shuttle-ball arena."

Tron's eyes widened. "For your first round? And you survived?" He crouched next to the force field. "Insurance must be tougher than I thought."

"You have no idea," Ram chuckled. "I'm just glad I figured out how to put a backhand spin on the disc once it turned into a ball." His face sobered. "They sent six of us loyalists in. Only two of us came back, and the other one, I think it was Frob, is in worse shape than I am."

"Shuttle-ball's usually where they send the hard cases, the programs who just refuse to die in the ring game or the light-cycles," Tron said slowly. "They must have picked you six out as troublemakers."

"Got that right." Ram shifted on the bench and sighed. "I was searching for an escape route the whole way there and back. Didn't see anything promising."

"The game grid's locked up tighter than a high-clearance archive." Tron looked in the direction Ram had been dragged from. "I've tested every exit until they won't send me anywhere unescorted. The only way out is over the walls, and they only send recognizers in here."

"And Sark's cruiser," agreed Ram.

"You can't steal the cruiser any more than you could steal a recognizer," Tron argued. "The shuttle he takes down to give the new recruits' lecture, maybe."

Ram opened his eyes and waved at the transparent ceiling. "They listening in on us, you think?"

"Nah." Tron shook his head. "Not you; they think you'll be de-rezzed in half a cycle anyway, if not before. And they're trying to pretend they don't think I'm a threat. Sark thinks if they treat me like any other program, my reputation will fade out."

"Still could have the place bugged on general principles." Ram tried to sit up and ended up propped on his elbows. "So, is there a plan, or are we just marking time in here?"

"There's a plan once we get out. My User has information that could help us - that might even be enough to put the MCP out of business." Tron sat back. "And I have contacts that can get us into an I/O tower. The problem," he continued, glancing around the towering walls of the game warriors' holding pit above them, "is getting out."

"I'll think about it," Ram promised as his eyes closed again. "There's always some way, just not an easy one."

Tron nodded. He couldn't explain why he trusted this young program, still practically a stranger, but intuition said he was a friend. "Just have to think of it. Another viewpoint might be a good thing."

"Another viewpoint, and the help of the Users," Ram said, yawning.

Tron looked up again, past the girders to the dark sky. "From your mouth to Their ears," he murmured as Ram drifted back into unconsciousness.


End file.
